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Every year that passes, every football season that opens in a blast of heat and potential, you’re one step closer to having Tim off your plate forever.
Turns out, that’s not what you want.
That’s not to say you know what you want in the here and now, of course. Life under the Riggins roof has never been simple—wasn’t so at twelve, sixteen, twenty-five. Why would it be now?
So when practice starts, you tell Tim he’s going to be a failure and he tells you to fuck off. It’s a typical exchange; it doesn’t seem to soften with age. Why are you thinking about aging so much lately? It’s not like either of your parents are geriatric, they’re just gone. Tim is not yet seventeen. Why is he the boss of all this? Are you just doomed to be outdone in every way by your baby brother who’s smarter, stronger, and faster than you?
Quieter, though. He’s quieter, and because of that, the house is too. Where there used to be thrown dishes and slamming doors, Tim just broods when he’s sad. When he’s angry—at least, before his fuse blows to hell and back—he broods, too. And you’re starting to think that on the rare occasions when Tim is happy, it’s not harnessing his full potential.
Funny thing, to look at potential and personality and whatever the hell kind of other crap those well-intentioned guidance counselor types who dig their nose into everything believe to be important. You believe some of it, even. You did attend school through most of your grades. But it was a different world.
You tell him to wake up and he doesn’t care. You tell him that his girlfriend doesn’t need to be draped on top of him 24-7… and he doesn’t care.
You’ll cheer him on on the field, you’re not a monster (you’re not, after all, Walt)—but you’re not going to cut him slack forever. He needs to get that. He needs to man up, contribute to the household. Rent’s not getting any cheaper, and you’re not asking him to help pay it, but he could help out a bit. You didn’t just have chores when you were his age, you were not too far off from having to take on the care and keeping of a whole-ass kid.
Him, obviously. That’s Riggins arithmetic: it all adds up to what you started with.
You always sucked at division.